CONJURE, WITH CURE—
Mis Tijeras—
Poem by Ruth Moon Kempher
my scissors
sat on the table
rusted in the crotch &
wouldn’t cut butter
without a jag
but
gypsy lady
whispered them silver
sharp enough to cut stars
& houses & trees of glass—
the catch, of course
they stuck to the hand
of anyone who used them. Long
after the cutting, they burned
finger loops into skin.
Only silver
of course
would lift the curse.
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“Conjure, With Cure,” a poem by Ruth Moon Kempher will appear in the upcoming Silver Birch Press Silver Anthology, available November 15, 2012.